Five Times Bucky Came Out Of The Ice, And One Time He Wasn't Alone
by RobotRollCall
Summary: The road Bucky was forced down to become the Winter Soldier was not an easy one. This is a look at five stops along the way, and one at the start of a new path. Takes place after the fall from the train and goes on up past the end of Civil War.
1. Chapter 1

_It's been a while since I've written a 'five times' story, but this one just seemed perfect for it. And I'm sure that in the course of all the awful things that happened to Bucky, he came in and out of cryo more than five times-I'm looking at this more as a series of snapshots-glimpses of the stages of the whole thing, but certainly not all of it._

 _Unfortunately, none of these precious babies are mine. Copyright Disney, Marvel, etc, etc. If they were mine, Bucky would have come back after Winter Soldier and Steve would have helped him find himself again and their lives would suck a whole lot less. Not that I didn't love Civil War, because it was fantastic, but poor Bucky. And poor Steve. Why can't my boys have some happiness? It's like we're competing with the Winchesters for tragedy here.  
_

 _Okay. Sorry. Rambling over. Enjoy the story._

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

He was unaware of anything supporting him until it was gone, and then he was suddenly very aware of his body as it slammed into an unforgiving metal floor. There was a new sound, and it took him a moment to realize it was his own voice screaming. He was still cold, he was still wet, and everything hurt.

His arm was grabbed roughly and he was pulled into what he assumed was vertical position. He was still trying to figure out which way was up and how much of this pain and cold was actually him, and the motion proved too much—he curled in on himself as much as whatever was holding him allowed and was violently sick.

The noises changed again, and he was able to make out voices, though the words were a lost cause. The blur across his vision was coalescing into slightly more defined blurs—people in white, walls, objects. He was still moving, and he thought he was horizontal now. It hurt a little bit less.

A blur appeared above him and slowly swam into focus. He knew that face. That round face and smug grin, always looking down at him, and the corresponding jolt of fear in his gut. He swallowed hard.

"You?" his throat rasped around the word that felt so unfamiliar. How long had it been since he'd said anything?

The little man smiled. "Ah!" He sounded pleased. "You remember me, then, Sergeant? Good, good. It would seem the cryostasis has not been as damaging as I had feared."

As the little man spoke, memory came rushing back. Zola. Italy. The labor camp. Getting sick. The lab. Fear coursed into adrenaline and Bucky moved to sit up, to roll away, to run. He couldn't be back there! But he was restrained on the table, and he jerked up a few inches only to slam back down onto the metal. The few inches was more than enough, however, to get a good view of the bloody stump where his left arm should have been. His stomach rolled, and he managed to turn onto his side just enough to keep from choking as he was sick again.

Zola clicked his tongue disapprovingly above him. "The technology is crude, I am afraid. Effective in preserving your life, yes, but the process of waking much longer and messier than it should be. Refinements will come in time, I suppose," he sighed. "You!" he barked at someone over his shoulder. "Come and clean this up!"

"Well now," he said, turning his attention back to Bucky. "Let's find out if it has been worth keeping you alive these seven years, hm?"

Bucky was shivering, only partly from the cold, trying his best not to be sick again and barely succeeding in not crying. What the hell was happening? How did he get back here? What had they done to his arm? Where…? Wait, if he was back in Zola's lab, that meant Steve was coming. Right? Steve would find him, and he would be big, and in the army, and would pull Bucky out of the fire. Or had…Had that already happened? He thought he could see it. Was this then? Was he there again? Or was this new? He thought he had his arm last time.

"Steve?" he croaked, turning his aching head as much as he could.

Zola pulled a needle out of Bucky's good arm and smiled. It was not a nice smile at all. "The good Captain is dead, I am afraid. Just as the world believes you to be. Like you, he went into the ice, but unlike you, he will not be coming out again."

Steve…Steve was dead? "No," Bucky whispered.

"Oh, yes," the little scientist said happily. "This is going to hurt, by the way."

Bucky felt himself being rolled onto his side and something jabbing into his spine, but it barely registered. Steve was dead. Steve was dead and Bucky was alone, and no one knew he was here. He was stuck back in the past. Or this was new. He still wasn't sure. Maybe he was dead too. Maybe this was hell.

His face felt wet, but he didn't really care anymore if he cried.

Zola was right—it did hurt, and by the time he was done, it hurt a hell of a lot more. Bucky thought he passed out a few times. Everything still hurt, but he wasn't cold anymore. What was left of his arm was on fire, and it was creeping into everything else.

Zola, on the other hand, seemed quite happy. A little concerned about Bucky's left arm, but overall in a good mood. When he was conscious enough to think about it, Bucky didn't think that was good thing.

"Excellent!" Zola beamed. "Barring the arm, you're perfect. We will need to do something about that. But the rest of you!" He smiled. "The fact you survived the fall at all should have told me the work we started in Italy was not wasted. Still, it took me longer to gain S.H.I.E.L.D.'s trust than I would have liked. You've been sitting here waiting for quite some time. You know, we've never had anyone frozen as long as you?" He switched into German but continued to babble happily to himself, checking the notes he'd been taking.

Something swam up through the pain into Bucky's mind. Something Zola had said…he'd said it earlier, and he just mentioned it again now. What…? "Seven years?" he rasped.

Zola's eyes snapped back to him. "Indeed. The year is 1953. As I said, it has taken some time for me to be allowed to travel freely."

"I've—" Bucky coughed. "I've been here for seven years?" That couldn't be right. He didn't remember a thing.

Zola nodded. "And remarkably well-preserved, don't you think? As far as your body is concerned, you are still twenty-eight years old, and you fell from the train two days ago."

A barrage of memories assaulted Bucky's head. Zola went on, saying something about how now that his arm was thawing out, it would need treatment before getting infected, something about prototypes and schematics, but Bucky wasn't listening. He was hanging on for dear life and Steve was screaming and looking like a frightened little kid, reaching out for his hand, and Bucky was falling.

Memories came back in the days that followed, and Bucky swam in and out of them between waves of pain and sedation. He was being dragged through the snow. He was somewhere cold and metal. People in white coats were cleaning him, discussing him, treating him. A large, hulking mass of metal and glass hissed in the corner. He was strapped inside and it swallowed him up in a burst of frozen mist, pain and darkness. He really had been frozen. Maybe this really was 1953. Steve really must be dead. He never would have left Bucky here otherwise.

"What are you doing to me?" Bucky asked on the fifth day. He'd been drugged and cut and jabbed and shocked until it was all a haze. Thoughts were hard and words were harder, but now he finally blinked awake into what felt like lucidity. Zola was standing over him, that ever-present smirk on his face. Other men swam in and out of view.

"Sergeant Barnes," Zola said proudly. "You will be the new fist of HYDRA."

He looked down and Bucky followed his eyes, raising his arms numbly. The bloody remnant of the left arm had been cut away, and where it used to be was now a perfect replica in shining metal. Bucky stared uncomprehendingly as the fingers curled, mirroring the actions of his flesh and blood hand. "No," he whispered, eyes widening in horror. "NO!" he yelled. Panic and rage flared, and people were yelling and his metal fingers were crushing flesh and he didn't think he could feel it, and he could never—he had to get out—and something sharp was jabbing into his neck and he was sinking into the dark, the noise and the pain following him down.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

He felt pressure across his chest and around his arms, slowly digging into his armpits, and he realized whatever it was was all that was holding him up right now. There was a sudden snap as the pressure released, and hands grabbed him as he slid towards the floor. Nausea churned in his stomach, and he thought he might have thrown up as he was dragged somewhere, legs unable to support him. Everything hurt.

He was sitting down, and the pressure was back, binding his chest and his right arm. He stared down at his left, free arm, blinking uncomprehendingly at the metallic glint that shone back at him. If he thought about it, the pain was concentrated there. Well, mostly there—his arm didn't actually hurt, but his shoulder and the side of his chest—those were on fire. His eyes followed the shiny metal up to the source of the pain. It took long moments of staring at red, angry, scarred flesh before he remembered what had happened.

Swallowing down the urge to be sick again, he raised the metal arm cautiously. It moved as he told it to, just like a flesh and blood arm would have, if a little stiffly. He curled the fingers curiously, bent it at the elbow. Metallic whirs and clicks sounded up and down the appendage as it moved. He grabbed at the arm of the chair. He could feel the pressure of the armrest beneath his fingers and when he slammed his hand down on it, he felt a small jolt run up the arm, and, oh, okay, that made the shoulder hurt more. But he didn't _feel_ it. He couldn't feel the coldness or the sharp edges of the metal like he could with his other hand. It fascinated and disgusted him at the same time. What were they doing to him?

He turned his head at the sound of footsteps. Zola was back. "Get the hell away from me," Bucky snarled, jerking at the restraints on his arm.

Zola smiled. "You remember last time, then, eh? That speaks well of your mind, you know. Not everyone retains their cognitive functions so well after time in the ice. It would be interesting to study how much of that is you, and how much of that comes from our work, but that isn't really the point, I suppose." He sighed. "One cannot indulge all scientific curiosities at the same time." He picked up a syringe and moved towards Bucky's right side. "How is the pain today?"

Bucky's unrestrained metal arm shot across his body and grabbed Zola by the throat. "I said get. The hell. Away," Bucky growled. Zola coughed and scrabbled at the metal fingers, trying in vain to free his throat. Bucky yanked Zola forward, slamming his forehead into the side of the chair, then hurled him to the side, surprised at how far his body flew before crashing into a table and lying still. Was the metal arm stronger than his other one? It would make sense, he supposed.

He grabbed at the cuff restraining his other arm and ripped it away, ignoring the scream of pain in his shoulder where metal met flesh. He did the same with the binding on his chest and lurched forward, crashing to his knees on the floor. Pain whited out his vision for a moment as his metal arm took most of the weight of the fall. His head swam and his legs were shaky, but he pushed himself up, stumbling towards the door. His legs grew stronger with every step, and he had stopped leaning on the walls by the time he got to the hall.

His new metal fist quickly took down any opposition he ran into, and he tried not to think about how efficient it was. There would be time to worry about it when he was out. He didn't know where he was going, only that he needed to get out, and he was glad at least that the arm could help with that. Adrenaline was already starting to lag in the rest of his body—it seemed he didn't really heal when he was frozen, just that everything stopped and waited, and he was still feeling that fall from the train.

He burst through another door, and with a surprised gasp, found himself tumbling out into the snow. He rolled down a small incline before pushing himself up, already shivering, realizing for the first time he was without shoes or a shirt. His eyes widened as he looked around—there was nothing but snow and rock as far as he could see. Where the hell was he?

Sudden pain punched through his side and he dropped to the ground again. He struggled to push himself up, staring numbly at the rapidly growing red stain in the snow. Someone was grabbing him and he lashed out clumsily with his metal arm, but the blood loss was already making his head swim. He was being lifted up, and somewhere over the wind was Zola's voice, cursing and shouting at whoever had shot him and promising to kill them slowly if he died.

When he woke up again he was back in the chair. Both arms were restrained this time, and his side was on fire as well as his shoulder. He stared down at the bandages wrapping his middle. Small spots of blood stained the right side.

"Yes, I know," Zola said from somewhere behind him. "You needed to be stopped, but shooting you was hardly a prudent move. Lucky for us the rapid healing was one of the first things we worked on, eh?" He moved around into Bucky's line of sight. A bandage covered most of his forehead, and finger-shaped bruises ringed his neck. Bucky couldn't help a small smirk.

"That was very foolish, Sergeant Barnes," Zola said with a frown. "We are high in the Alps, with no civilization for a hundred miles in either direction. Where did you think you were going to go?"

"Anywhere's got to be better than here," Bucky snapped. He tugged experimentally on his restraints. The one on the metal arm was too tight, and he couldn't get the momentum he needed to pull free.

"You make things difficult, you know. It is much easier for the techs to work on your arm if it is free. There is still some fine-tuning to do."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Bucky replied, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I'll just sit here quietly while you turn me into some sort of monster."

"One day you will," Zola said confidently. "But for now…" He trailed off with a shrug.

"Like hell," Bucky spat. "What the hell are you trying to do to me?"

"I'm not trying anything, Sergeant. I am succeeding," Zola informed him. "As I said before, the procedure has already started. My experiments those many years ago were not in vain—though you were not, of course, my only subject. You are the only one to live this long, however, and we have learned from the mistakes of the past. This procedure will succeed if given the proper time. And HYDRA is nothing if not patient."

"You know, you don't really say anything for as much as you talk," Bucky said. "What are you doing to me?" he demanded.

A frightening smile split Zola's face. "As I said. You will be the new fist of HYDRA."

"You may as well just kill me," Bucky snapped. "Because there's no way that's going to happen." Anger coursed hot through his veins, but it was followed by a cold surge of fear. He would fight with everything he had, but he was alone and no one was coming, and he had no idea what HYDRA was actually capable of doing. He was scared.

"We shall see," Zola said smugly. "I think, in time, you will find my friends and I to be very persuasive."

Bucky jerked in surprise as two metal plates swung up from somewhere behind his head and enveloped the sides of his face. He hissed in pain as sharp little spikes shot out of the plates and jabbed into the sides of his head, then his brain was on fire and he lost consciousness amid screams of agony.

He was still in the chair when he woke. Wires and tools were poking into his left arm, needles and tubing into his right. He couldn't move. He could barely think. He drifted.

He wasn't sure how long he was in the chair. He floated in and out, and the pain never went away—just fluctuated between almost bearable and white-hot agony. Sometimes it was from the things on his head. Sometimes it was from the drugs. Most of the time it was both.

When he was conscious enough to notice the pain, he would let his mind drift. He thought about his parents and wished he could see them again. He remembered his dad teaching him how to tie a tie. His mom showed him how to dance before his first big date. He thought about his sister—the pictures she used to draw and stick up all over his bedroom, and the way she hid behind him and held on to his jacket when she felt shy. He thought about Steve—the brave little punk who would stand up to anybody no matter how big, and all the fights Bucky had to jump in and save his neck. And then all the fights Steve jumped in and saved Bucky. How all the extra muscles and height did nothing to hide the brave little punk underneath. He thought about nights around the campfire with Steve and the rest of the Commandos, dancing in some French bar with a gorgeous little Army nurse named Jenny, teaching his sister how to ride a bike, his mom making soup for him when he was sick, the bells in the Catholic church down the street and how the organ music used to make him feel gigantic and insignificant all at the same time, the smell of his dad's aftershave, listening to mystery shows on the radio with Steve and trying to see who could guess the murderer first, the soft, warm lips of Daisy—the first girl he ever kissed, and the diner around the corner from his apartment with the best cherry pie in the city. He thought about all of it and tried to let it all take him away, and when they left him alone and shaking in the metal chair, he cried because all of it was gone.

He held on to the memories, even as Zola jabbed and prodded and electrocuted. They could change his arm and the rest of his body, but if he could hold on to those memories, he could hold on to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_So, like I said in the intro, I think it wold have taken them a really long time to break Bucky. In my head, this chapter and the one after it are just one in a series of many, many similar torture sessions and re-freezings he would have experienced over the years._

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

Someone was moving him. He felt the bumps in the floor as his lifeless feet dragged across them. He felt sick—the motion didn't help—but he didn't think he threw up. That was…was that new?

When awareness finally dug its way out of his frozen brain, the restraints on his arms and chest didn't surprise him. He felt stiff from the cold, but he didn't hurt all over. Well, not much, anyway. That was…that was new too, wasn't it? (Except for his arm. There was a dull throb in his shoulder, punctuated by little jolts of pain if it moved. That wasn't new.)

The little man who came in the door wasn't new. Bucky searched his brain for a moment. Zola. Hatred and fear stirred in his gut.

"What do you think of our new facilities, Sergeant Barnes?" Zola asked him. Bucky looked around. He hadn't noticed the room was different. It was larger. Darker. More ominous-looking machines and equipment.

"The waking process is much better this time, don't you think? Much less pain. No vomiting. Always an improvement." He looked at Bucky as if waiting for a reply. Bucky glared. Zola shrugged. "We are in Siberia now, in case you were wondering. Much higher tech—not so close to S.H.I.E.L.D. snooping around. We can work more peacefully here."

"How nice for you," Bucky sneered.

"I would think you would be a little more appreciative too," Zola said. "Surely you've noticed how much better you're feeling? I told you refinements to the cryostasis would come. We transferred you here once the newest chamber was ready," he said, gesturing at the hulking machine Bucky had come out of. "It preserves you still, of course, but this one allows for treatment and healing at the same time. Very useful for the next part of the procedure."

He did notice that the bullet hole in his abdomen was gone. And he didn't feel like he'd fallen off a train anymore. And while that was nice, he wasn't sure about the treatment and the 'next part of the procedure' bit. Were they doing things to him while he was asleep?

"How long?" Bucky asked. Keeping track of days was immensely difficult, what with the drugs and the electrocution-induced blackouts, but he didn't think he'd actually been awake for more than about a month. Two, maybe? How much time were they freezing him in between?

"Hmm?" Zola looked up, looking confused. "Oh, since we last had you out? Let me see, maybe…six months. Transporting the old cryostasis tube here was not an easy task, and after the transfer, we had to allow time for your last treatment to settle." He must have seen the apprehension in Bucky's eyes, because that unpleasant smile was back. "We're not just doing all of this for the fun of it, Sergeant. Although, I will admit, you do irritate me a great deal, so I do enjoy hearing you scream. But no, we are working towards a purpose here."

"What purpose?" Bucky growled to hide the tremor in his voice.

"Surely you feel yourself changing, do you not?" Zola asked. When Bucky said nothing, he cocked an eyebrow. "Tell me about your home, back in Brooklyn."

"What?"

"Your home, your family. I would like to know about them. Tell me about your sister," Zola said expectantly.

"No," Bucky snapped. He had no desire to give Zola anything, no matter how innocuous it seemed. Zola's words sent his mind automatically to his sister, however, and he paused. He had a sister. He knew that. He could hear her laugh. Hear her lilting voice calling his name. But her face was kind of…blurry. And she didn't call him Bucky, she called him…she used to call him something else. What was it?

A cold and heavy weight dropped in his stomach. Something must have shown in his eyes, because a knowing glint sparkled behind Zola's glasses, and he turned his attention back to his clipboard with a smug little smirk.

"What did you do to me?!" Bucky demanded. "And don't give me any crap about 'the procedure', you tell me what the hell you did to me!"

"We are taking you away, Sergeant," Zola replied calmly. "Little bit by little bit, we are chipping away the man inside, replacing you with something of our own making. And when we are through, and you are gone, you will be the perfect soldier. It will take time, yes, and hopefully I will live to see it. Because it will be glorious."

A predatory grin split his spiteful little face, and raw panic surged up Bucky's spine, twitching through his muscles and heaving against his restraints. The metal plates slammed back up into place around his head, the little spikes jabbed into his skull once again, and the pain whited out everything but the terror.

He wasn't sure when he noticed, but sometimes when they were hurting him, someone would talk to him. He didn't understand the words, but he started to recognize them when they were repeated, started to associate bad things with them. Bad things always happened after he heard the words.

He couldn't remember his sister's name anymore.

Whatever they were doing to him terrified him. Zola was right, he could feel himself changing. Pain faded faster, wounds healed quicker. He was hungrier, thirstier, and though he knew they were keeping him nourished somehow through one of the ever-present needles in his arm, he started feeling grateful when they brought him real food and water, and he hated himself for that. He felt stronger, faster. They would let him loose sometimes, the room ringed with soldiers with guns, and one of them would come forward and hit him. Bucky would fight back until they tied him down again, and he moved faster than he remembered, hit harder—even with his flesh arm. It scared him.

He couldn't remember how he first met Steve.

If his body was getting stronger, his mind was slowly breaking down. Bucky could feel that too. It was getting harder to think. Dredging up memories took effort. Remembering was the only way he knew how to fight this, though, so he did. He forced himself to remember. He pulled up his parents' faces, slowly going over the lines and edges, the sounds of their voices. He made himself think about Steve. The time they rode in the back of a freezer truck. A young Steve not making fun of him for crying when his cat died. Steve turning into a bright red little beanpole when he tried to talk to girls. He forced himself to think about the war. He didn't like it, but he could remember it, so he did. Shipping out with Dugan and Gabe. Getting captured. Getting rescued. The Commandos. Steve was…Steve was big now? He thought that was right. He could see big Steve leading the Commandos, see him teaching Falsworth how to play the harmonica by the camp fire one night. Was Steve coming to rescue him again? Steve always found him, but was there …there was a reason he couldn't come…

Sandwiches. The first time he met Steve, it had something to do with sandwiches.

He couldn't remember why Steve was big now.

He thought about whatever he could. It was the only way he knew to fend off the darkness encroaching on the edges of his mind. The diner with the cherry pie. He tried to imagine how it tasted. The girl he kissed. He couldn't remember her name, but she was the first, and she was sweet and smelled like apples. The organ music. He couldn't remember what it sounded like, but he held on to how it made him feel.

He'd lived in the same neighborhood in Brooklyn his whole life. He couldn't remember what it looked like anymore.

Bucky. His name was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. When he couldn't think of things to remember, he would say that over and over again.

Baseball. His dad took him and Steve to baseball games in the summer when they were little. He didn't remember what team they watched. He remembered cheering. He remembered the thrill when they won. He remembered sitting on the end of Steve's bed when he was sick and couldn't go, listening to the game on the radio.

He taught his sister how to ride her bike, but he couldn't…he didn't think he knew how to ride a bike anymore.

His mom made him soup when he was sick.

Steve had asthma.

His dad whistled when he did his tie in the mornings. He couldn't remember the song now. He didn't think he could tie a tie anymore either.

His dress uniform was itchy, but he liked the way girls looked at him when he wore it.

When Steve saw something that wasn't right, his tiny little body practically shook with righteous anger. He had to pull the little guy out of a lot of fights.

The waitress at the diner thought he was cute and used to give him free coffee.

He'd been reading a book before he left and never got to finish it. Something about a time machine. The cold thing they kept putting him in was kind of like a time machine. He kept waking up in the future, not getting any older.

He couldn't remember how the Commandos got together anymore. Some of their faces were getting blurry.

Each memory he couldn't remember was like a candle going out. He could feel it getting darker. No matter how tight he held on, they kept slipping away. Whenever they left him alone, whenever the pain cleared enough for him to think, he would remember whatever he could, no matter how big or insignificant. He would remember and he would cry, because they were taking him away and he was fighting as hard as he could, but he was losing. He was scared.

"Steve, help me," he whispered. They'd done this before and Steve had been big, Steve had come and saved him. Where was he?

After a lot more drugs and a lot more pain, they dragged him back to the tank and strapped him in. He thought this might be the first time he'd been awake going in. He whispered his name a few more times before the ice burst in and consumed him.

He hoped he remembered what it was when he woke up.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

They must have moved him, because he was in the chair again, but he hadn't noticed. He was cold and shaking, but he wasn't…he wasn't tied down. That was new. He looked around the room. No one. That was new too.

This couldn't be right. Was he dreaming? He didn't think so. He didn't dream when he was frozen. And his shoulder hurt. His shoulder always hurt. He didn't think things were supposed to hurt in dreams.

Maybe it was a trap. He considered the empty room. He decided it didn't matter. It was a chance. He pushed himself up from the chair, arms shaking a little with the effort. He didn't really know how long it took for him to stop feeling weak after coming out of the ice. They always started hurting him before that happened.

Strength returned a little bit as he walked, adrenaline picking up the slack. He ran into a guard in the hall and swiftly took him down. Adrenaline was surging now. He picked up the pace. Rounding a corner, he came face to face with seven guards coming in his direction. No one paused before engaging.

There were too many of them, but he was holding his own. Despite the onslaught, he wasn't going down, and that scared him a little bit, but he wasn't sure why just now. Suddenly there was just one left, and his flesh and blood arm had him pinned against the wall, metal hand drawing back for a strike.

"Sputnik!" a voice yelled from behind him.

His arms dropped and he crashed down onto his hands and knees. The guard he'd been holding kicked him roughly in the stomach and he fell to the floor, breathing hard and shaking. Cold terror surged through him. He couldn't get up. He couldn't move. His vision was graying on the edges. What was happening?

Feet moved into his line of vision, and a familiar, reviled voice drifted down. "Wonderful," it breathed.

The lights went out completely.

When he woke up, he was back in the chair. He was tied down again, and he ached all over. His head was pounding. It screamed at him when he shook it to get his hair out of his eyes. He thought maybe his hair wasn't usually in his eyes, but there were more important things to worry about right now.

The little man was back. He knew that he hated him with every flesh and metal fiber of his being, but it took a minute to call up his name. Zola.

"What did you do?" he rasped. He'd meant it to sound angry, but it came out as more of a croak.

Zola turned to face him. His eyes were more lined than he thought he remembered. "That was a test," the scientist informed him. "You did very well."

"What?"

"Something as dangerous as you're going to be needs a failsafe of some kind," Zola said with a smirk. "The fact that it works in the middle of the action is fantastic. Better than I could have hoped for." He was beaming. "Of course, it will need to be reset now, and you'll have to go back into the ice before we can use it again, but still, that was wonderful. I am a patient man, but it is always gratifying to see years of work begin to come to fruition."

He did remember that Zola liked to talk a lot. He barely gave his irritation a passing thought, however. What Zola wouldn't shut up about was absolutely terrifying. He could just turn him off now?! What…How was that…"No," he whispered, his voice shaking as something small and frightened screamed inside his soul.

"Oh, yes," Zola replied. "Now, tell me," he went on, looking down at the tears slowly trickling from his eyes. "Is this an emotional response, or are you in pain? Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Where?" Zola asked, making a note on his clipboard.

"Everywhere," he whispered. Why was he answering him?

"Can you be more specific?" Zola pressed.

The answer was on the tip of his tongue, and his face twisted in a snarl as he stopped himself from replying. For some reason, Zola found that amusing. He found it alarming. What was happening to him?!

Zola returned his attention to his clipboard with a small smile, leaving him alone with his thoughts. They were slow in coming, and none of them were heading in good directions. He was supposed to be remembering something. A lot of things. Anything? There were faces, but they didn't have names. Words, names and voices floated by, not attaching to anything. A sound here. A smell there. All of it was him. All of it was intangible. Clouds of fog and flickering candles. Nothing that would stay.

Where had he gone?

The pain and the terror reached a crescendo and he turned and was sick over the side of the chair, tears streaming down his face as he vomited.

He heard Zola's click of disapproval, and realized he was talking to someone else. Another one of the scientists. They needed to do something about refining the failsafe. Couldn't have this happening every time. And when…When did he start understanding Russian? He didn't even realize it wasn't English until the conversation was almost over. What else were they putting into his head while he slept?

He threw up again. And somewhere under the pain and the fear he smiled a little bit. It sounded like he'd gotten it on Zola's shoes.

Days went by in a cloud of pain, semi-consciousness and an increasing feeling of emptiness. Memories flickered on the edge of his brain and were extinguished. Sometimes they resurfaced. Most of the time they didn't.

One of the faces he saw had a name. Steve. Steve was important. He could remember that, although he couldn't remember why. He really hoped Steve was going to find him soon. Steve always found him.

Zola was getting more insistent in the questions he asked him. Most of the time, he was able to keep from answering him. He couldn't remember why that was important anymore either, but he didn't like Zola. He knew that. And for now, that was enough to try to keep his mouth shut.

Zola, however, was finding it less amusing than he used to. And he had a friend, a big friend with big fists, and when he refused to answer Zola, the man with the fists would hit him until he did. After a while, he started answering faster. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't remember why, and it hurt so much.

It didn't make him hate Zola any less.

The words kept coming back too. There were ten of them. He understood them now, although _why_ they kept saying them didn't really make sense. But they did, and bad things happened. Bad things always happened after the words. And the lights kept going out.

Bruised and bleeding and losing to the dark, he almost welcomed it when it was time to go back into the ice.


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

Everything hurt and his muscles wouldn't obey him. Long strands of hair were plastered to his forehead. They tickled his eyes. Something resembling awareness flickered at the corners of his mind. Little lights blinked cautiously.

Asthma.

Bicycles.

Whistling.

Pie.

Uniform.

Kiss.

Church organ.

He didn't know what any of it meant. The lights weren't bright enough yet. If he concentrated on them one at a time, they burned a little bit brighter.

Blond hair and blue eyes that trusted him completely.

The crack of a bat and the roar of a crowd.

Little girl with dark hair climbing into his lap.

Campfire and khaki. Harmonica?

The little guy was big and was going to save him.

A woman's voice, the smell of spring flowers. Mom?

The lights were getting bolder. Then everything was on fire.

"Longing."

Metal spikes were stabbing into his skull.

"Rusted."

Fire and electricity were coursing through his veins.

"Seventeen."

The little lights ran screaming from the darkness.

"Daybreak."

He screamed along with them.

"Furnace."

Agony. Pure, unadulterated, white hot agony.

"Nine."

The warm, iron tang of blood in his mouth.

"Benign."

His body convulsed in time with the electricity.

"Homecoming."

The lights were shrieking, pleading, dying.

"One."

Had there ever been a time before the fire in his brain?

"Freight car."

The lights went out.

The fire stopped. The pain faded. Metal plates swung away from his head. Restraints on his arms snapped open. Footsteps approached. The little man, the scientist, faced him. He looked old. "Soldier?" he asked. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"Ready to comply." And he was.

The little scientist smiled. "Good." He looked him over, making notes, nodding.

He sat still, waiting for instructions.

"Open your mouth," the scientist told him with a frown. He did. "Hmm. Not too bad. You see the Colonel there?" He nodded at a man in a uniform standing in the corner. "You will follow his instructions as if they were my own. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Good. It's time to start your training. Go with him."

He rose to follow the Colonel. Behind him, he heard the scientist yelling at someone. "Let's see about getting him a mouth guard of some sort for next time, hmm? He chipped a tooth."

He ran his tongue experimentally across his teeth. It did hurt, just there. They hadn't asked, so he hadn't really noticed. He wondered if that should bother him. It didn't.

Training sessions with the Colonel and his men were intense. They worked morning till night, honing his physical skills, practicing hand-to-hand and with guns, knives, and any other weapons they could get their hands on. The soldiers showed no mercy, and neither did he. His muscles screamed for relief at the end of each day, but any slowness or hesitation was exploited and met with pain. He quickly learned to tune it out and fight harder.

Each night, the little scientist looked him over. (Zola, he heard someone call him. He thought he might remember that.) He tsked and clicked his tongue disapprovingly at his injuries, but it was always the Colonel's men he berated, never him. The Colonel argued back, saying he would be no use if he wasn't tough. Zola would agree, mutter something disparaging in German that the Soldier understood but apparently the Colonel did not, and set about tending his injuries. They never asked him his opinion about it, so he never gave it. He didn't think he had one.

Most of the injuries healed up overnight. (Each night he would be locked in a small room with a cot to sleep. He thought it might have been a long time since he actually laid down and slept. The cot was uncomfortable. It didn't matter. They told him to sleep, so he did.) He was expected to continue training each morning even if he wasn't healed—something he discovered after one of the men broke his arm. The flesh one, of course. The metal one pounded his attacker into the ground in retaliation. He did not get up again.

Days flew by in a whirl of physical activity. On the seventeenth day, he asked Zola what his name was. It had started to bother him that he didn't know. They put him back into the chair and set his brain on fire, and then it didn't bother him anymore. Thirteen days after that, he started to wonder again, and they put him back into the ice.

It soon emerged as a pattern. Seventeen days after waking up, little memories would come gnawing at the corners of his mind. He didn't like them. They didn't make sense, they were loud and frightening and chaotic, and they crowded out the clarity of his orders. And they always meant they would have to hurt him to make them go away. He avoided them whenever he could.

Thirteen days after that, it would start again and they would put him back into the ice. Zola said something about it being a natural consequence of his advanced healing, that the brain would probably always need to be reset after a while. Who knew what the long-term repercussions of that would be? Zola talked too much.

He never knew how long he was in the ice before waking, but when he came out, it was always the same. The pain and the words, Zola and the Colonel. Weapons, the chair, pain and rage. Memories of previous times awake were murky, but he didn't think Zola was looking well. When they decided his training was finished, he was given a mission. He was sent out into the world, languages, stealth and travel techniques downloaded while he slept, orders and skills and weapons provided by the Colonel. He went with two other soldiers who were told to observe him and only step in if he failed. He did not.

The world was loud and frenzied—so different than everything he knew—and it fascinated and frightened him. But he wasn't there for the world. He was there for a target. He tracked his target to a city where it was warm—had he ever been warm before? He didn't know. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. The target was high-profile, could have been reached through brute force, but the numbers he would have to fight through for entry and escape would be vastly inefficient. Better to set up on a hill above where the target would travel—quick and clean and unexpected. The shot was true, and he was gone before the onlookers finished screaming. On his way back to base, he thought about his training with the Colonel. He didn't think sniping had been part of the course. That had come from somewhere deeper. He shook his head and refused to think about it. There were days yet before they'd have to hurt him again. No need to hurry it along.

Back in Siberia, he sat silently in his chair while a scientist tinkered with his arm. Zola, the Colonel and a man in a suit were overflowing with pride at the success of his mission. He didn't understand all the fuss. He'd been told to do something and he did it. What was there to celebrate?

They moved him back to the tank and strapped him in. Zola came over before they closed the front. He was smiling broadly. "Mein kleiner Soldat," he beamed, cupping the Soldier's face in his hands. Something in the Soldier's stomach churned in revulsion, but his face remained impassive. "You have done wonderfully," Zola continued. "To think, the way you fought me when we began," he chuckled. "But, now, ah, now you are perfect. I did not think I would live to see this day. You have been everything I have hoped for. My finest creation. Now, you must continue on the good work without me. You shall be splendid. The Fist of HYDRA." He patted the Soldier on the cheek and pulled his hands away.

The front of the tank slammed down and the ice rolled in.

He never saw Zola again.

Someone later said that he had died. He wondered if he should feel something—joy? He had always hated Zola. But it didn't really matter. Beyond pain, the rage of battle or the satisfaction of completing a mission, he felt very little. There were orders, there were missions, and that was his purpose. That was his purpose for the next fifty years. And he was good at it.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

Voices. People moving him. Weak, aching muscles. All so familiar. And yet, somehow, this was different. He thought he remembered…things. Random things, loud and fast and jumbled, but memories. Real memories. The voices above him…he couldn't understand them. And his arm was…No, no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

He'd gone back. It was 1953 again, and he still had actual memories and his arm was missing and scientists he didn't understand were hovering over him and he roared and surged up off the table swinging with his one good hand because there was no way in HELL he was letting them do this again!

The people above him scattered in a flurry of noise, falling objects and breaking glass, and he couldn't really see and he didn't know where he was, but his fist kept meeting flesh, and that would work for now. His legs were weak and shaky as soon as they hit the floor and he stumbled away from the mass of bodies. He hit something cool and hard and his legs gave out completely. He slid down to the floor, turning to face whoever it was he couldn't see. Maybe they would shoot him again. He hoped he'd bleed out this time.

Large, warm arms grabbed him, encircled him, holding him fast, and he pushed back, adrenaline surging, but his shaky, frozen single arm wasn't up to the task. The owner of the arms was talking to him, and he curled down in on himself. This couldn't be happening again. He couldn't do it. He'd finally found himself again and they were going to take him away.

"Just stop," he whispered, involuntary tears welling in the corners of his eyes. "Don't, please. I can't…Please."

"Aw, Bucky, no," the voice said sadly. Warm fingers carded through his damp hair, brushing it away from his eyes. "No, you're safe now. It's okay. You're not back there and you're never going back again. You're okay." The arms cinched tighter around him, but they were…gentle. And the voice called him…

"Bucky," he breathed. That was him.

"Yeah," the voice said encouragingly. "Bucky. That's you. That's you, and you're okay. You're safe now. You're out and you're safe."

He knew that voice. That voice was safe. And if that voice was safe and he was Bucky, then…"Steve?"

He opened his eyes and blinked, and the slightly blurry face of Steve Rogers was smiling down at him, relieved and worried and trying not to grin like an idiot at the fact that Bucky recognized him. "Hey," Steve said softly.

"Steve," Bucky said again, tension draining from his freezing body. He gladly leaned into the warmth Steve was offering as he hugged his friend.

"You remember where you are?" Steve asked after a moment, pulling away and shifting to crouch in front of him so he could see him better, keeping a hand on his shoulder.

Bucky looked around. The cool, hard thing behind him was a glass window. In front of him, beyond Steve's broad shoulders, was a sleek cryo tube, medical equipment in various states of disarray, a bed and a group of people in coats huddled nervously by the door. Bucky nodded. "Wakanda," he answered, and the worried crease between Steve's eyebrows disappeared.

Bucky dropped his head, rubbing his eyes with his hand. "Sorry," he muttered. "I thought—"

"I know," Steve cut him off. He took Bucky's hand and pulled it away from his face. "It's okay," he assured him, and Bucky saw no judgement there. He huffed a small laugh. He shouldn't have expected any. It was Steve, after all.

"Old habits die hard, I guess," Bucky said, scratching absently at the side of his face.

"It's fine," Steve assured him again. He stood and held out a hand.

Bucky took it and let Steve pull him to his feet, leaning heavily against him as they crossed the room. He sank down gratefully to sit on the bed—nothing hurt, which was a nice change, but everything was still shaky. At Steve's nod, the Wakandan medics made their way back over. Bucky grimaced as he saw where his panicked punches had landed. "I'm sorry," he said to the man in front of him whose nose was still bleeding sluggishly.

"It is forgiven, Sergeant Barnes," the man replied sincerely. "Now, with your permission, we would like to run some quick checks—nothing invasive!—just to make sure everything is alright after the freezing."

Nobody moved, and Bucky realized they actually were waiting for his permission before doing anything. That was…new. It was kind of nice.

He nodded and they began, checking his vitals and listening to his heart and beeping some sort of little scanner thing at him. Steve stayed within arm's reach the whole time.

"You are probably familiar with this part," the chief medic said. "But you will experience some weakness until the effects of the freezing wear off. We've added a mild sedative to help counteract the pain that normally accompanies the process, but thanks to your advanced healing capabilities, your strength should return within the hour. I would suggest remaining in bed until then."

"Thank you," Bucky replied, nodding at the medics who all smiled and filed out of the room. A smile quirked up one corner of his mouth as he settled back against his pillow. "Nice people," he remarked to Steve. "It's a nice change."

"You alright?" Steve asked, moving to sit on the foot of the bed.

"You kidding? No electroshock therapy, needles or angry Russians with body armor? Like I said, it's a nice change."

Steve's mouth twisted in a weird little smile that Bucky knew meant he felt uncomfortable joking about what happened to him. "I'm fine," Bucky assured him.

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm tired and I'm cold, but…" He shrugged.

"Oh, right." Steve turned and grabbed a thick blanket from a chair by the bed. "Here." He unfurled it and dropped it over his friend, tucking in the edges around his feet. "Better?"

"You tucking me in, Stevie?" Bucky teased.

Steve blushed a little. "Figured it was my turn."

How many times had a young Bucky tucked in a sick Steve when they were kids?

The warmth and the feeling of safety was something he hadn't really felt in a long time, and it was surprisingly soothing. "You can sleep if you want, Buck," Steve said, sitting down again by Bucky's feet. "Nothing you need to stay up for."

Bucky smiled. Despite the fact that he'd been awake for all of twenty minutes, sleep did sound good. But before he did that…

"Why am I out?" he asked. Steve looked down at him, surprised. "I know you didn't want me going in there, but I'm not safe, Steve. I'm not. Why am I awake? Did—" Something like hope fluttered against his ribcage. "Did they figure out how to fix me?"

"They think they found a way to help you," Steve answered, trying not to look too excited. Bucky noted his use of the word 'help', not 'fix', and something warm purred happily inside his chest.

"They don't have it all nailed down yet," Steve admitted. "But they have a good idea, and they needed to do some scans and tests and stuff while you were awake to make sure they're on the right track."

"Okay," Bucky said. Not quite what he'd been hoping for, but certainly not bad. Hopefully these guys worked faster than Zola.

"They don't know how long it will take, but they keep telling me it's easier to take something like this out than to put it in," Steve continued. "What?" he asked, seeing Bucky's amused raise of an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you learned how to read minds while I was out," Bucky said.

"Nope," Steve chuckled. "Been reading you like a book for ninety-three years, though."

That got an honest-to-goodness laugh out of Bucky. Steve laughed along with him, and Bucky saw lines of tension lifting out of the set of his shoulders.

"How long was I in there?" Bucky asked, nodding over at the machine. He always wondered. Usually no one bothered to tell him.

"Um," Steve looked thoughtful. "Five months yesterday."

Bucky considered. If the Wakandans already had some ideas for fixing his brain after five months, maybe it wouldn't take too long to get things going. Still…He wasn't sure, not really, but he _thought_ his first mission might have been in 1963. That gave Zola at least ten years to mess around with his head, if not more. And that wasn't even taking into account all his years as the Soldier and all the times they reset his brain. Two years of freedom and the way he could heal had gone a long way towards finding most of his memories again, but it hadn't done anything for the words and that deep programming. Could they really undo something like that?

"What's wrong?" Steve asked him.

"Hm? Nothing," Bucky said. He wondered how far off he'd drifted. He did that sometimes.

"C'mon," Steve nudged his foot. "Something's eating you."

Bucky sighed. "Can they really do this, Steve? I mean, as long as it all took to go in…"

"They can," Steve said firmly. "And if it takes just as long to take out as it did to put in…" He shrugged. "I've got no place else to be."

Bucky snorted. "It took 'em at least ten years, Steve. Hell of a long time to wait."

Steve frowned, and was quiet for a long moment. "You know on the jet," he said at last. "You said you didn't think you were worth all this to me?"

Bucky nodded.

"Well, you are," Steve declared. "So, you need to quit thinking you're not worth saving, and quit trying to talk me out of helping you. You're the one who taught me that there's no shame in letting someone else carry you when you need it. So, let me carry you for a while. What do you think 'with you to the end of the line' means, jerk?"

Bucky stared at him. "I…" Part of him didn't want to believe Steve, because after everything he'd done, no, he honestly _didn't_ think he was worth it. But he'd never not believed Steve before—he'd always had faith in the little guy, and it was still there. It was humbling and overwhelming and a little bit scary that the little guy still had faith in him. "What if…" he began hesitantly. "What if I can't be the Bucky you remember?" Steve had given up so much, but what if Bucky was damaged beyond repair? What if he couldn't get all of him back? Would he still be worth it then?

"Then you'll still be worth it, and I'll get to know the Bucky you are now," Steve said simply.

Bucky swallowed hard over a lump in his throat. "Steve, I…" He looked down at his lap. There was no way in hell he deserved a friend like Steve. He looked up. "Thanks," he said softly. There just weren't any other words.

Steve smiled back.

"And thanks for finding me again," Bucky said. He wasn't sure if he meant D.C., or Bucharest, or his little episode just now, or all three, but he meant it.

"Always will," Steve promised him.

"I know." He yawned. "Kept thinking that back…y'know, before," he said sleepily. "And you did."

"Took me a while," Steve said ruefully.

"But you did," Bucky repeated. "If I don't get to beat myself up, neither do you."

Steve laughed and Bucky smiled. Maybe he really would be okay.

"Get some sleep, Buck," Steve said. Bucky realized his eyes had drifted shut. "I'll be here when you wake up."

He fell asleep soft and slow and warm and not afraid.

And Steve was still there when he woke up.


End file.
